


Checkmate

by whovianmuse



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianmuse/pseuds/whovianmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The Doctor lies with his left cheek smushed against the glass table, his eyebrows curved upward as he surveys the desolate battlefield scattered with wounded soldiers. His arms are sprawled out along the edges of the table in surrender, his thumb and pointer finger circling the head of a lonely black pawn, cornered by Amelia’s queen. His lips twist into a scowl as his eyes rove the chessboard, searching for a way out of the snare, but it’s futile. One glance at Amy’s devilish smirk tells him that it’s all over.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Checkmate

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** This was supposed to be fluff...and then _The Angels Take Manhattan_ premiered, and well...I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

            The Doctor lies with his left cheek smushed against the glass table, his eyebrows curved upward as he surveys the desolate battlefield scattered with wounded soldiers. His arms are sprawled out along the edges of the table in surrender, his thumb and pointer finger circling the head of a lonely black pawn, cornered by Amelia’s queen. His lips twist into a scowl as his eyes rove the chessboard, searching for a way out of the snare, but it’s futile. One glance at Amy’s devilish smirk tells him that it’s all over.

            That he’s lost.

            _Again_.

            He tallies _chess_ as yet another game in her favor.

            The moment his hands swipe the remaining pieces from the chessboard and onto the floor in a fit of frustrated defeat, Amy springs into a barrage of verbal abuse. Amy is, by far, the most irritatingly smug victor in the history of every game they’ve ever played together, but the Doctor is already brewing up the perfect revenge tactic. Before she can even pronounce the _t_ in _chess-failing numpty_ , the Doctor vaults across the glass table and onto the love seat opposite his own, and plunges into a full-on tickling attack. Amy kicks and flails, grabbing fistfuls of tweed in an attempt to shove him off.

            A mountain of ancient leather-bound Gallifreyan literature, two massive mugs of hot cocoa dappled with fluffy little white marshmallows, and a plate of half-devoured toffee and chocolate chip cookies clatters to the floor of the TARDIS library with a resounding crash, leaving a mess of plaster and glass in its wake. Amy bolts upward, accidentally slamming the top of her head into the Doctor’s chin, and falls backward onto the velour couch cushions.

            "Oi, let me up, stupidface," she laughs, jamming her hands halfway up the Doctor’s disheveled and slightly undone button-down shirt and clawing her scarlet-painted fingernails down the length of his chest in retaliation. In one swift, fluid motion, the Doctor has got Amelia pinned against the cushions of the love seat, cradling her wrists in his hands and nearly straddling her hips, one knee pressed against the inside of her thighs, practically riding up her skirt. The wild flames of her hair spill across the dark red fabric of the love seat, black mascara smudged up around her left eye, tank top and sweater wrinkled and ridden up round her waist, exposing the tiniest bit of her soft, pale skin through the lace lining.

            Her lips curve into a curious smile, eyebrows arched in amusement as her hands slip loose and come to rest over his hearts, now thundering in a mercurial rhythm against his ribcage. In that moment, matching countless others in his past, the Doctor can’t help but notice how maddeningly beautiful Amelia is. With a startled jolt, he realizes that he’s never been this close to her before, reminds himself of the fact that, somewhere, billions of timelines and dimensions away from where they are right now, Amelia’s husband trudges about the TARDIS, waiting for his wife to come back to bed.

            With a maudlin twist of his hearts, the Doctor makes a silent promise, both to Rory and to himself, that he’ll put a stop to all of this…these ridiculous notions and impossibilities of requited love…eventually, in time, this inappropriate infatuation with his companion, with the mad, impossible woman he calls his best friend, will fade. After all, emotions are ephemeral…and if that isn’t believable enough of a lie, well then…he’ll simply have to swallow his feelings whole, keep them well hidden…because someday, he continually reminds himself, Amelia is going to leave him.

            They always do…no matter how much he comes to love them, or begs them to stay, they always leave him, in the end. Because they have to. Because they should. Because every story must eventually come to an end. For now, he’ll just have to hold onto every little moment, to every touch and every hug and every special forehead kiss reserved especially for his Amelia Pond…until the very last moment, until the very last goodbye...until they fade into nothing more than memories.

            With a breathless groan, the Doctor leaps backward and staggers to the floor, breaking his fall with the palms of his hands and gracelessly pushing himself back up to full height. He runs his fingers through his tousled mess of brown hair, a failed attempt at playing casual, and waltzes over toward the nearest set of book stacks, selecting a rather large leather-bound novel at random, and plummeting onto the opposite couch. After three minutes of awkward silence, complete with the Doctor resolutely avoiding Amelia’s questioning stares, she bounces up off of her couch and bids him goodnight, wandering off to her bedroom, and leaving the Doctor quite alone in his never-ending library.

 


End file.
